Under the ancient trees of Angkor Wat, life blooms and aches in silent stories. Today, I witnessed one of those raw moments—unfiltered and deeply human—between a mother monkey, Barry, and her newborn baby, Bean.
Barry was injured. A wound on her side, likely from a fall or territorial scuffle, throbbed with every movement. Yet there she sat, cradling tiny Bean against her chest, her eyes half-closed from pain, half-open with the love only a mother knows.
But Baby Bean didn’t understand pain. All he knew was closeness, and instinctively, he reached for the one place he shouldn’t—her open wound.
Barry flinched, letting out a soft cry. I gasped. She gently tried to nudge him away, but Bean was insistent. He wasn’t hurting her on purpose. To him, this was just another part of mama to cling to—warm, familiar, safe.
I watched as Barry pulled him close again, wincing, but refusing to push him too far. It was a heart-wrenching push-and-pull: her need for healing, his need for comfort.
A few other monkeys sat close by, silently watching. Nature was still. Even the wind seemed to pause.
It reminded me of how many mothers silently bear pain just to make their children feel secure—how love sometimes means enduring more than the body can handle.
Barry finally shifted position, placing Bean beside her, carefully licking his tiny forehead. Bean whined, confused by the distance. Barry’s eyes said it all: “I love you, my baby. But I’m hurting.”
It was more than just a scene from the forest. It was a lesson.
Pain doesn’t cancel out love. Sometimes, they coexist.
Sometimes… that’s what makes love real.